eleventh hour
by lenny
Summary: five times he didn't save her.


Author's Note- This is my first VM fic, and the first piece I've written in a couple of years. I really don't know what I'm getting myself into, but I hope you enjoy. This was written for the 5thingsthat LiveJournal community _Five Things That Never Happened at a Party in Neptune_ challenge. Thanks for reading, any and all constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged.

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eleventh hour

you didn't save her innocence. (shelley pomeroy's party, sophomore year.)

She steps from shade into light, and your stomach burns with something you've been calling hate. Bitch is the word that rings in your head, and as it moves to your tongue you bite it back in favor of tequila. She glides by you, pretends not to see you, a brief flash of fear and pain behind her eyes and then the mask falls back, she's solid, she has something to prove, she will not be forgotten. That white dress and those tiny arms. You remember a time, not long ago, when she reminded you of something other than betrayal, and if you weren't so drunk and fucking high right now you might almost feel nostalgic.

The shortest distance between, the straight line from your brain to your hands has become disconnected and you're floating. Your one love is gone, your solid ground has disappeared from beneath your feet, and she comes back into view again; the one to blame. She took everything from you (it's easier to think that), all the leather that has met and scarred your back (it's all because of her), the embers upon your young skin (she was just the catalyst, this retroactive fault line she has triggered). You don't know how, you don't need to know how, but she is responsible for every single fucking thing that is wrong with your life. (If only you could stop wishing that it had been you that died instead.)

She stumbles, she is falling, but where did her composure, her brave face go? Blurs of voices and fingers, you're falling too, but you're getting closer to forgetting. You see her lying there, paper lanterns burning in the sky, all around, and you hate her. Even as she floats there, she is beauty and innocence and need, she is your past, she is what you need to stop remembering. You blink and she's gone, and you're grateful, and you really fucking want to be alone.

Drunken, hazy footsteps bring you to a jumble of lines and colors you recognize as the guest house (oh, how you made that college girl moan with your lazy tongue last summer) and you open the door with a sway. And there he is, holding himself above her, her dress hem cast hastily to the side, and the way he looks at her makes you hit him, makes you want to fuck him up, no one else sees her that way (no one else wants to hurt her the way you do), no one else has a right to. Your knuckles find bone, find blood, and he runs.

You pick her up, carry her to her shitty car, and leave her there, unconscious. Because she had no fucking business coming here anyway.

--

you didn't want to let go. (logan's surprise unbirthday party.)

The lights are off, you fumble for the doorknob, lips guiding her backwards through the threshold, oh god you never thought this would actually happen (her eyes close whenever you kiss, you leave yours open just to make sure it's real). The world may be against you (it always is) but you're here, she's here, her fingertips are tracing lines across your body, electric, you've never been one to confuse love for lust (never the former) but now your brain is full of static and your eyes can't quite focus and your heart is screaming things that the static drowns out. You want to come clean, you want to forget who you've been, the words slip trip into her mouth and she knows, she knows what you've done and she kisses you clean and maybe you can stop being the person with the open wounds and jagged scars, always pushing and pulling, so desperate.

Her arms are around you, skin across skin, 'trust me' you say (I can love you, please let me) and it's so easy, her body tucks into yours, you fit, oh god you fit. You feel her breathe, feel her heart within your embrace, within your own body, it beats. She's so small (she's yours), the dead girl with the glassy eyes never needed you, not really, your own mother needed you and you never seemed to be big (strong, brave) enough to save her, but this small breathing beating forgiving girl with the soft hair and the truth blue eyes could need you, want you. You kiss her forehead, you want to kiss her everywhere she'll let you but she sighs into your chest and you're okay with simple.

You don't want to fuck this up, the hell you're going to fuck this up, love brings loss when it comes to the women in your life and you're not letting go. The panic rises in your throat as you hold her tighter (please don't let go of me) and suddenly you need a fucking drink. If there's one thing you've learned in your star-crossed life it's that alcohol is a salve, salvation, savior (champagne in the back of a limousine, vodka to shut out the sound of husband becoming father, history repeating) and you need to forget and pretend and be redeemed. A drink.

She presses a kiss to your neck as you look toward the air vent (the key to unlock, undo) and her body stiffens as you begin to pull away, stop breathing (just a fucking drink). Only your hands remain touching when you're about to suggest refreshments (forget forget forget) and suddenly she pulls you back, she's holding you like she'll never let you go (please don't let me go) and you've been running away, running in the wrong direction for so long that it doesn't seem to matter that your entire world has been turned upside down by this little (so big, so big) girl.

You allow her to pull you against her, press her palms against your back, she pulls you down, down flat on the bed, curls herself into your side and loves you. She is warm, more salvation than you could ever fit into a glass, and you know you'll lie there as long as she'll let you, and you're not letting go. It's simple.

--

you didn't save her life. (the kane's party for the governor.)

You've been called a lot of things throughout your life, but 'murderer' has never been one of them.

You drive, yellow on black, and you don't know where you're going except for away. The whiskey says this is it, it's over, why bother, but there's something else that makes you turn right instead of left toward the bridge. The lines blur in front of you, snaking across the pavement, and the next time you look up you're at the only mansion in town bigger than your own. The alcohol burns in your stomach, your cheeks are wet but you aren't sure you're crying, and heart takes over inebriated mind as you open the door and stumble to the ground.

You walk the familiar sidewalk, fighting back memories, and let yourself in. Through twisted hallways, you're on a mission, but you don't know what, and suddenly you're at her door for the first time in over a year (you can't take this). But then you know what you're here for, the letter (maybe she can still love me), your dead ex-girlfriend kept very few secrets from you (just the important ones, the secrets she was fucking) and there's only one place a letter like that could be, kept from prying eyes until the time she could use it to inflict the most damage. You don't have a screwdriver, you think, but then a moan that is decidedly hers comes from across the hall, mission aborted. Quiet footsteps (you have a lot of practice) and you see them together (brother and sister?), and the bile begins to rise in your throat. You think your life can't get any worse, just for a second, and that's when you see the video. She is beautiful, and writhing, and fucking the biggest secret kept, and that's when the liquor starts refusing to stay down.

Outside, the cool air does nothing to soothe your stomach, your eyes, your heart. You always knew she didn't love you, but since her death it has become easier to pretend, forget, tell yourself that things would have worked out had flesh not met glass. Things can't get worse, and then you see your father fucking your girlfriend.

Gravel claws into your knees, you might be crying now, because your vision has become blurry. Your fingers fumble through your pockets, but the flask isn't there (dealing with this sober is not an option right now). You wipe your eyes, stand up, and see the last person you want to see (or maybe the only one). He's walking slowly toward a dark car, and it takes you a minute to realize that it's the car that belongs to the girl that you once tried to love, the car where you first made her leave little bite marks on your shoulder (a scar you were finally proud to carry). He's reaching for the handle and the door opens (she always locks her doors, something must be wrong) and you walk up to him, you can't see anything but him, and you want him dead. There's blood, he's fallen to the ground, you don't know whose blood it is, and you don't care, because the only thing that matters in this fucked up world is that he suffers for what he's done to you, to your mother (god you loved her), to your girlfriend (it's always so much easier to blame the one that's still alive).

All at once her arms are around you, and you don't even think about struggling, you fall into her warmth, she holds you close and whispers 'he killed Lilly, he killed our Lilly' and as you look to your broken motherfucking father on the ground, to the girl carrying your weight, all of the weight with you, the world goes black.

--

you didn't kiss her goodnight. (alterna-prom.)

Drunk on champagne, you see her come through the door, all grace and beauty and light, and you wonder immediately if it's for you. You've missed her, missed the warmth next to you at night, missed the fingers tangled in your hair, missed having someone love you. You weren't used to hearing the words anyway, even if she couldn't say them, she played the part. Normally your guilt, anger, fucking issues are yours to carry, yours to buckle beneath, but right now all you can see is her. She's beautiful, not just another girl, and most of all not someone's stepmother. You miss the way she made you feel; while you had spent years learning how to become numb, somehow she managed to break in and you miss the way she made you feel anything at all. She's just across the room and you're for once too far gone to be scared shitless.

She disappears in the crowd, and even though your glass is full, you're not quite sure what it is that you're celebrating. You drink anyway. The charade that has been the last four years of your life is finally over, and although you know you're supposed to be relieved, excited, so over this, it's about to make you crumble. The room is filled with people, and ever the cliche drunk, you think you've never felt more alone.

She's hiding; you can tell. Behind people, behind anger, behind mysteries to solve and making your heart break. You love her, you've never doubted that, but she has. She did. Her friends leave, she walks by you again, she looks lost, you can't help but stare (of course she's beautiful but it's something more).

Against your better drunken judgment you approach her. You look her in the eyes, she looks back, wounded. Wanting to be anywhere other than with you. The champagne bottle slips between your fingers, you set it down on the table, and you're done with giving up. You're done with letting bad things happen to you and not fighting back.

You rise, get as close to her as you can without her taser making an appearance. She backs up, and you follow. You take her face into your hands, and she looks like she's been shot. As you go to speak, the only words that manage to tumble out are 'I'm sorry' and she looks at you, really looks at you for the first time in almost a year. And as you move to kiss her (her eyes flutter closed and her chin tilts up to meet you, she's not running away), it all strikes you as being so fucking epic.

--

you didn't know how to love her enough. (graduation party.)

You've never been good at playing the hero. You don't have superpowers, you're not all that intuitive, all you really have going for you is that tortured little boy thing. But you know her. And you know that when she approaches you at the graduation party (god you had been hoping she was going to pull you into the hall closet to fuck) that something is wrong. Nothing gets under her skin, not even you anymore, and something is very, very wrong.

So when some future frat boy slaps you on the back and hands you a beer, your eyes still on her, you drop it and walk away. Walk toward the door, toward your heart. The elevator doors close right as you walk up, and you can smell her perfume in the air. You've fucked up so much in your life that you've lost count, you've let down everyone you've ever dared to love, but you've had enough.

You find her at the front desk of the hotel, she turns around and reaches for her phone, sees you. Her gaze drops, she bites her lip. You've never seen her look so broken. You're surprised when you move to hold her in your arms, even more so when she allows you, relaxes into you. She breathes into your skin, something terrible has happened, will happen. Minutes melt into seconds, you're yelling at the desk clerk, you're being escorted into the elevator, you're stuffing hundred dollar bills into the greedy hands of bellboys, and finally your name and fame are being put to good use.

A door is opened, you step through, and are met with the barrel of a gun. There are clothes strewn around, the shower is running, and it doesn't immediately sink in that it's him on the other side of that bullet. He laughs, not the same laugh you've heard for years, the nervous laughter of a friend's tagalong little brother. The light from the open door hits his face and he sneers, eyes flicking down toward the trigger. You subconsciously step in front of her, protect her like you've never been able to do in the past, and you feel warm fingers on your back.

The shower turns off with a squeak and his eyes look to the door, just for a second, and you tackle him to the ground. The gun skitters across the floor toward her, she picks it up with nervous hands, you pin him to the ground, sit on him like you used to do when you were in middle school and you were fighting over the last shot of bourbon in his dad's liquor cabinet.

It isn't until later, when he's in handcuffs and his sad girlfriend with the red brown hair is in tears, that you realize she held on and hasn't let go. Her arms barely fit around you, her face is buried in your shirt, a sob escapes her lips as she looks up at you. Your chest aches.

And you wonder how your life would be different if you had let yourself love Veronica Mars years ago.


End file.
